


you're the good things

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, background reiner/armin, bottom!Bertholdt, gross sweaty needy Teens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things having a fuckbuddy does for Bertholdt's confidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the good things

Bertholdt thinks he should feel worse about spending the whole day fantasizing about sucking Jean’s cock, but once it’s night and they’re out in the woods and he’s actually doing it, he’s nearly forgotten. Jean pulls his cock from his pants before Bertholdt’s even gotten onto his knees. _That means he wants it, he assures himself_ , and he pushes his hair out of his eyes as he wraps his lips around the head.

Jean gasps, _fuuhh_ , not quite a swear. Long lithe fingers weave themselves into Bertholdt’s hair, anchoring his head there by Jean’s hips. Bertholdt wills himself, swallowing and gasping and breathing through his mouth as he goes, to try to take as much of Jean’s cock into his mouth as he can, but that voice keeps whispering in his mind, _you can’t fucking do it, you sweaty piece of garbage, it’s too big_. That same voice tells him every day that he won’t make that jump or that he’s about to miss the target and slice into the wood and not the cushion or that even little Christa could take him down when they spar. But god, he’d die to make Jean feel as good as Reiner tells him Armin makes him feel. Reiner says that Armin can down all nine inches and doesn’t even gag. Jean isn’t as big as Reiner, and Bertholdt’s basically twice Armin’s size, so what’s his problem? 

“Oh my god,” Jean moans, his voice a hoarse rasp ripped straight from his lungs. When Bertholdt looks up he finds him with his head tipped back against the tree. There’s a spot on his neck that looks black in the night, a love-bite Bertholdt had given him the night before. The collars of Jean’s shirt and jacket had hidden it all day, but now that it’s emerged in the darkness Bertholdt feels, weirdly, suddenly, and lewdly, as if he’s accomplished something. Left a mark on this boy he so desperately wants to please even if it’s not at all a thing he should be thinking about doing right now. He wonders how it looks up close, if marks from his teeth show up amid the bruising. He has kind of a snaggletooth on the left side—is that love-bite a signature, he wonders? Would anyone know that Bertholdt had given it to him? 

Jean’s hands tighten in Bertholdt’s hair. Reassured by that blotch on Jean’s neck, he closes his eyes and surges forward, trying again to take another inch, another half-inch, anything more than the three or so he has on his tongue down his throat. He manages for a second and backs away before he gags. 

He still can’t do it. He can use his mouth on a neck but not on a dick. _Give up_ , the voice says, but Bertholdt can’t, and he won’t, and for once it’s because he’s decided to be selfish. He loves the warm, solid prod of Jean’s cock on his tongue, sliding against the insides of his mouth, the shaft pushing past his lips. He wants to keep it there as long as Jean will let him. 

He doesn’t even know why he likes Jean so much. He has a bad attitude most of the time. He gets into fights with people like Eren who, no matter how badly they terrify Bertholdt, are earnest in their attempts to improve. He struts around as if he’s faultless even when he stumbles in half of his conversations, he can be contrary just for the sake of it, he’s a shameless, avowed coward. Even his best friend has called him on it, and what was Jean’s response? The equivalent of, “yes, that’s me, king of the weenies.” He has almost no self-doubt, but when he does, he acknowledges it openly. 

Bertholdt sighs around him. 

He knows exactly why he likes Jean so much. 

Then he feels Jean’s hands petting through his hair, and he thinks at first that he’s pulling him away, but he does it again and again, as if the texture of his hair is something Jean likes. For a moment this astounds Bertholdt enough that he pauses in his back and forth motions. Nobody, not even Reiner, has ever said that Bertholdt’s hair, always thick and always matted with old and new sweat, feels good. But Jean keeps stroking him, and it’s enough almost to make Bertholdt sob with how much he appreciates it. 

He reaches up to wrap an arm around Jean’s thigh. The move pulls Jean’s pants down a little more, so Bertholdt, out of reflex, goes to apologize. He muffles a syllable before remembering that he’s still supposed to be sucking cock. Jean grunts something back, but reaches down to help the progress until his pants pile around his ankles. Then he cards his fingers through Bertholdt’s hair again. 

"Get yours off, too,” Jean says, his breath shallow. “Can you do it while you’re still—” 

Bertholdt is too eager to even let Jean try to stammer his way through the rest of the question. He shimmies onto his knees, pulls his pants down, then wrestles them off of his shins, then ankles, then feet. 

“God,” Jean gasps. “You’re gonna make me come right now—stop—” 

But Bertholdt doesn’t have to, because Jean does it for him. This time his hands actually do pull his head away from his cock, and when it slips free from Bertholdt’s lips, Jean bends down and kisses him, hard and wet and hot, his tongue sweeping and grazing inside his mouth. Bertholdt cranes his neck upward—it doesn’t take much—to return the kiss, his tongue following the motions of Jean’s, trying to let him know with the movements of one slippery, pre-flavored organ that right now he’ll do anything for him, all he wants is to make him feel good, did he make him feel good? 

“Can we fuck?” Jean asks. He bites his lip, and even in the dark Bertholdt can tell he’s blushing. “I mean—do you want to—” 

Bertholdt nods, a reaction that’s slightly delayed by his own disbelief. The last time they had sex—the first time—they’d gone to an abandoned boarding house on a free day, and when they finished and lay there in the mound of cushions that had once been a bed or some blankets, he’d told himself, _you were awful, he’s never going to want to do that with you again, he’s going to want someone tiny like Armin_ , even as Jean held him and they fell asleep, sticky and exhausted. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, let’s—do it.” 

Jean kneels in front of him, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes, so Bertholdt pulls his own off to match him. They sit kneeling in front of each other, kissing and groping as if, Bertholdt thinks, what’s below them aren’t leaves but quilts, and the light from the moon is something they sought out for the romance of it rather than a fact of their sneaking out. He wants the mood lighting, he wants the quilts, he wants Jean, but as long as he actually does have Jean, he’ll settle for the dirty crunch as he gets onto his hands and knees, and for the moonlight that cloaks Jean in a lewd blue in the outdoors. 

Jean digs in the pockets of his discarded pants until he says, “Ah, gotcha,” and when Bertholdt looks back he finds Jean coating his dick in some oil from a flask, of all things, and an ornate one at that, etched with designs of swirling vines and leaves. He’s not even old enough to drink. 

“Where’d you get a flask?” Bertholdt asks. 

“Birthday present,” Jean replies. 

“And you put lube in it?” 

Jean shrugs, a gesture he puts his whole body into, the way he seems to put all of himself into everything he says. “Where else was I gonna put it?” 

It strikes Bertholdt as funny that this is what Jean asks him, but he doesn’t know why until a second later, when Jean lines the head of his slick cock up against his entrance. He’d expected him to say something like, “I’m not doing anything else with it,” something dismissive of the lube and the entire fact that they’re about to have sex. 

But it’s as if Jean can’t imagine that flask serving any purpose other than helping them fuck. 

And then Bertholdt realizes: Jean was planning to fuck him tonight. 

Jean wanted him. Still wants him. 

When Jean pushes inside him, Bertholdt covers his mouth, wailing into his forearm, desperate and ready for all of him to fill him. “Stop that,” Jean says. “Nobody’s gonna hear.” 

“God,” Bertholdt whines. 

“I wanna hear you.” 

So he lets him hear. He rests his forehead, not his mouth, on his arm, and his whines turn to reedy moans, strangled in the column of his throat. “Jean,” he says, trying to reposition every nerve in his body to let him feel the pressure and the heat of Jean’s cock entering him, “you feel so good—God—” 

“Fuck,” is all Jean can reply. He pushes in, just a little more, and then his hips press flush against Bertholdt’s ass, and he swears again, longer, harsher, more drawn out this time. When Jean starts moving, Bertholdt’s hands move to grasp at something, anything to help balance the pain against the pleasure. All he finds are leaves, and they disintegrate in his palms and leave his short fingernails pressing into his own flesh— _watch you shift while you’re getting fucked in the ass, you clown, won’t that be a story_ —but it’s enough. He arches his back, trying to maintain his bearing as Jean’s nudges turn to thuds then to crashes. “Let me hear you,” Jean is panting, “how’s it feel? Talk to me, Bertl.” 

Bertholdt swears, a single breathy _fuck_ beneath his gasps. “God, it’s so good, Jean, you’re so good…” He tries to look back over his shoulder but can’t see much, just one of Jean’s pale hands on his dark hip, like sunlight through a canopy of leaves. “Don’t stop—Jean, please—” 

And then _please_ deteriorates. _Please_ becomes a refrain, a melody Bertholdt chants between his whimpers and his moans. The more he says it, the more it means, _please go faster, please hit me deeper, please do that again, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop_ , and soon Bertholdt’s body is moving to reflect the way his voice begs. He pushes back when Jean thrusts in, trying to meet him halfway so that Jean’s cock never quite leaves him. He reaches back and places his hand atop Jean’s, and Jean leans down to kiss between Bertholdt’s shoulder blades, all the way down his spine until he can’t quite bend that way anymore. “Fuck me, Jean, please,” he begs, clear and confident. 

He’s crying out, lifting his head up to howl in needy, wet sobs toward the sky as Jean’s thrusts begin to hit him harder than they have before, raking over his prostate, surging through the gate of his entrance. Jean bend forward, wraps his hand around Bertholdt’s cock, and strokes it, nowhere near in time with his thrusts, but even better because they’re fast and his grip is tight and slick with lube. All the while Bertholdt tries to cry out how good Jean feels and to please give him more, but with the way Jean is wrecking his prostate he can barely speak. He’s close, he’s so close, and Jean had warned him once that he has kind of a hair-trigger but here’s Bertholdt, tall, lumbering, slow-moving Bertholdt, ready to explode any second for some asshole he dwarfs. 

Jean kisses Bertholdt’s back again. “Fuck, you’re so tight, Bertl, God—” and then, “—you’re so good—” 

Three words that Bertholdt can’t hope to recover from. He comes, hard and loud, trembling into Jean’s hand. His whole body quakes, his moans tear from some visceral point inside his lungs and echo off of the surrounding trees. Jean keeps fucking him, plowing into him to help him ride out the waves of his climax, and it’s only moments later that a cloud of heat swells up inside Bertholdt and he knows that Jean is coming too, even before he starts panting out Bertholdt’s name, Bertl, Bertl, Bertl, you’re so good. 

Bertholdt wants to collapse onto the forest floor, but he has to return to the barracks at least somewhat clean. After Jean pulls out, he rolls onto his side and then sits up, collapsing against a kneeling Jean’s chest and sliding down to fall into his bare lap. He wraps his arms around him, Jean wraps his arms around Bertholdt. Together they try to breathe again. And just as before, Jean is stroking Bertholdt’s hair, adoring the texture or the scent or the color, something about it, and Bertholdt sighs against his skin. 

“Sorry that was so quick,” Bertholdt says. He’s dizzy. They need to get back to camp soon, so Bertholdt can clean himself up—he can already feel some of Jean’s seed trickling out of him—without it seeming like anything more than a midnight bathroom break, but if he could fall asleep in Jean’s lap, he would. 

“It’s all right,” Jean answers. “I mean, if you want to, we can try to make it last longer next time.” 

Next time. He wants a next time. 

“But it doesn’t matter to me how long it is, as long as it was good for you.” Jean leans down and kisses Bertholdt on the top of the head, digging his nose a little into his thick hair. “It was great for me, holy shit, Bertl. Was it good for you?” 

“Oh my god,” he says. “So good.” 

And when Jean laughs, that full-body, loud, throwing-his-head-back-and-cackling-into-the-air laugh that he always does, Bertholdt can’t remember the last time he’d been able to tell that other voice of his to shut up. It has no idea what it’s talking about. 

**Author's Note:**

> cant wait for the guys in modest mouse to google one of their songs and find out that it inspired some grad student to write gay anime porn


End file.
